Sir, I beg your pardon, but—”

“But what, Miss Templeton?”

“But, my lord, I believe you are stepping on my foot.” She smiled tightly. Her partner was a divine dancer, but had not yet completely mastered the sweeping movements of the waltz. Gazing into his dark blue eyes, Clarissa was convinced that the Earl of Maxmara could be forgiven of almost any atrocity. But her foot was smarting, and there was only so much abuse that her kid slippers could tolerate.

He pulled back slightly and gazed down at her. Suddenly the flesh revealed by her fashionably low-cut gown felt hot, as though she had been sitting in the sun for too long. Without missing a step, he nodded deferentially and his full lips curved in a smile.

“My apologies, Miss Templeton.”

His head remained tilted down, as though he were studying the movement of their feet on the polished parquet floor. His lower lip twitched slightly, and the tips of his ears reddened. When he looked her in the eye again, there was something unfamiliar in his gaze—something disturbing, something compelling.

When his left foot brushed against her ankle, Clarissa faltered and drew back slightly, afraid of being stepped on again. She could feel the warmth of his hand through her glove as his grasp tightened on her, and pulled her back towards him.

Raising an eyebrow at him, she remarked, “Are you sure you wouldn’t like to sit down, my lord?”

“No,” the earl replied in a low voice. A muscle in his jaw clenched and he cast his gaze down between their bodies, which were a little too close for propriety. When they began moving again amongst the stifling throngs of society, Clarissa didn’t know whether to frown or smile.

She also had the sneaking suspicion that her partner was trying to look down her gown.

She decided to smile.

* * *

“Ah, crap!”

Max jumped back from the table and glared at the overturned coffee cup now dripping onto the kitchen floor.

And there went the newspaper into the garbage. The only section that had escaped the overdose of caffeine was the special gardening supplement.

It wasn’t exactly the Saturday morning he had envisioned.

Then again, last night hadn’t exactly turned out the way he had planned either. Sighing again, he ripped off about two feet of paper towel to mop up the spilled coffee on the table.

He couldn’t blame Sophy for the ill-timed, and ill-placed, rip in that ridiculous costume. He couldn’t even blame her for the wardrobe room door being locked in the first place, although she had known that the security guard was making his rounds soon. But he could lie awake most of the night recalling the feel of her body plastered to his and her chuckles resonating in his ear... and he had.

He also prayed late into the night that Dr. Chapaty would see the humor in the situation, and not tell the dean about his odd behavior and hasty exit.

Ironically, he’d been speaking to Supreme Beings a lot more since meeting Sophy Hadden, and being particularly smote at the same time.

It wasn’t until Max tossed the stained cloth into the sink with a wet slap that he heard the knock at the door again, and remembered what had startled him enough to send his elbow flailing towards his coffee cup.

Glancing down at his boxers and plain white t-shirt, he dragged a hand through his hair again. He shrugged, pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, and headed for the door. The visitor had given up knocking, and was now leaning on the doorbell with a persistence that would make any door-to-door salesman proud.

When he opened the door, he realized it was worse than a salesman. Much worse. And costlier.

“Oh, it’s you.”

Sophy beamed at him from under a floppy straw hat. “I didn’t know you wore glasses.”

Max frowned. This definitely wasn’t turning out to be the Saturday morning he had imagined. “Only for reading.” He smirked. “What, not heroic enough for you?”

She tipped her head to one side. Her flowered dress rippled as she shifted her weight to her other hip, and she wore a hat. A hat, like it was 1900. He was sorely tempted to grip that hip, and remove the hat.

“No, they suit you. Very... professorial.”

“Oh, I’m so glad you think so,” he muttered. But it was hard to be sore at someone complimenting you.

She raised an eyebrow, the only one he could see under the tilted brim of her hat. “Can I come in?”

He hesitated until he saw the folded newspaper under her arm. “Okay, but on one condition.”

Her eyes narrowed to thin slits. “What?”

He snatched the paper from under her arm and stepped back so that she could enter. “You make the coffee.”

“Deal.”

Ten minutes later they were sitting at the pine table sipping fresh coffee and companionably flipping through the paper. Max was amazed at how comfortable he was. It was not a sensation he was accustomed to in her presence—upon further reflection, it actually made him nervous and set his teeth on edge.

Coffee sloshed dangerously towards the brim of Sophy’s mug when she set it down rapidly. “I almost forgot,” she said, digging through the straw bag under her chair. She withdrew a few books and placed them on the table in front of him. “I brought these for you. They should help you with your study.”

He was almost afraid to look. “What, the sequel to Love’s Lusty Leer, The Dashing Duke of Desire?”

“No, I thought you should read something more contemporary, like The Billionaire Bullrider’s Baby Mama.” Sophy giggled into the mug raised to her lips and waved absently at the books on the table.

What? Max pushed his glasses back up his nose and picked one of the books up. She was kidding. It was a collection of essays on the appeal of romance.

“The others are copies of some doctoral theses on the same subject. I thought you might find them interesting. I also printed out some citations for you, for help with your research.”

He flipped quickly through the book in his hand. “Thanks.”

Sophy set her cup down and frowned. “Shouldn’t you get dressed or something?”

Her gaze skidded over the white cotton stretched tautly across his chest and down to his bare feet. And back up his body, but a little slower this time. Max stretched lazily, taking a little longer than necessary, and looked down at his boxer shorts.

“Yeah. I’ll just be a few minutes.” He pushed his chair back from the table and walked to the bedroom.

“Wear something nice!”

He poked his head out of the door. “What?”

Sophy’s voice rang clearly through the hall. “A suit and tie. Wear a suit and tie.”

Max yanked the t-shirt over his head and frowned in the general direction of the kitchen. What was she up to, and was it something he should call his lawyer ahead of time for? “Where are we going?”

“Research.”

He didn’t understand what she was talking about, but showered quickly, shaved, and pulled on a grey suit. When he strolled back into the kitchen, Sophy’s elbows were fixed on the table and her chin propped up by both fists. Her eyes were glued to the paper in front of her; a smile crept over her face.

“What’s so engrossing?”

“The comics.”

“Ah.” Max thrust two ties at her. “Which one is the most appropriate for where we’re going? Which, by the way, you still haven’t told me.”

Sophy bit her lower lip, her gaze shifting from one tie to the other. Then she tapped his right hand. “That one.”

He drew the tie under his collar and knotted it carefully.

“No wait, it’s crooked,” she told him.

She stood up and moved towards him, the silk of her dress whispering around her legs. As she frowned and tugged on the tie, Max realized that she stuck the tip of her tongue out slightly whenever she concentrated on something, as she did now. As she had last night when she was taking pictures. Or when she had read to him in the library.

Her scent drifted up his nose and the seersucker suit suddenly felt too heavy. She was almost in his arms. In fact, if he just lifted his hands right now...

“Done,” she announced, and stepped back. A bright spot of color burned high on her cheeks and she pivoted on one heel to retrieve her tote bag. “We ready?”

Max shook his head. “Just a minute. You’ve got newsprint all over your arms.”

Sophy twisted her left arm and craned her neck to look. “Oh rats.”

He grinned. “Actually, it’s Peanuts.” Irony always made him happy. He stalked to the sink and ran some water over a clean cloth. “Come here,” he ordered.

Holding her arm just above her elbow, he turned it gently so that he could get at the smudges. Rubbing the ink off her skin, his thumb lazily brushed against the delicate skin at the crease of her elbow. He could feel her pulse throbbing beneath his fingers. Inhaling sharply, he scrubbed her arm efficiently and thrust the cloth at her.

“You can do the other one.”

She wiped the cloth over her other arm, all the while glancing down at the arm he had just held, as though his fingers were still pressed into her skin. Her cheeks flamed and she didn’t look at him.

“Okay,” she said, and draped the cloth over the long faucet. Still averting her eyes, she picked up her purse and strode towards the door. “Let’s go.”

Max followed her out the door and locked it behind him. “Where are we going?”

The answer floated over her shoulder as she headed for the car. “To the ultimate in romance.”

Yes, he decided, he should be worried.

* * *

“I can’t believe we crashed three weddings,” Max hissed in Sophy’s ear. Her skin burned from the warmth of his breath as she leaned into him.

“Three ceremonies, actually. This is the only reception.” It had been a full day, to say the least.

He groaned, looking distinctly as though he wanted to crawl under the table. She noticed it was beginning to be a familiar reaction to her suggestions.

“Well, at least it’s an open bar,” she said optimistically. Sophy shot friendly smiles around the crowded table. “It was a lovely ceremony, wasn’t it?” she said a little louder.

Her tablemates stared blankly at her.

Sophy cocked her head towards Max and murmured through the smile plastered on her face, “I don’t think they speak English.”

The right side of Max’s mouth twisted up. “Wow, you are good at research. What was your first clue? The fact that the ‘lovely ceremony’ was performed in Cantonese?”

Sophy turned her attention to her plate. They were on the seventh course of the traditional Chinese wedding dinner, and so far she hadn’t been able to identify anything. And she refused to eat anything she couldn’t identify. It was a basic principle.

Her little box of gift chocolates had been scarfed down somewhere around the third dish, and her stomach was now rumbling in protest. She eyed the pink ribbons curling around the box beside Max’s plate and sighed.

“Don’t even think about it,” he warned, placing a protective hand over the small box.

Just then, another steaming dish was placed on the table and everyone dove into it, except for Sophy and Max.

“What is it?” she whispered.

Max peered at the platter making its way around the table. “Eel, I think.”

Sophy swallowed carefully. She turned to the gentleman at her right and smiled politely. “Are you going to eat those?” she asked, pointing at the gift chocolates.

“Sophy!”

She ignored Max and pointed again to the little white box. The man nodded and started jabbering in an unfamiliar language. Sophy’s heart leapt in anticipation, until the man paused long enough to rip open the box and pop two of the chocolates into his mouth.

Sophy slumped in her chair and reached for her wine glass. Wasn’t there a fast food place just down the road? She was tempted to tell Max she was going to the ladies’ room and then making a dash for the drive-thru, but she was worried he’d ditch her if she left his sight. She turned her head slightly to take in the dour expression on his face. Yes, it was a definite possibility. She rested a protective hand over her gurgling stomach and willed herself not to think about food. Identifiable food.

An hour later, the last two dishes made their way around the table—a noodle and a rice dish, respectively. Sophy sighed in relief and filled her plate. She shoveled the food into her mouth faster than she could breathe, and cleaned her plate within minutes. Even Max was muttering appreciative thanks to a higher power and the kitchen staff.

“They’re starting to dance,” Max mumbled around a mouthful of sesame noodles.

Sophy nodded, rubbing her full stomach absently. She knew she had eaten too quickly, but she had just been so darn hungry. “I see that.”

Max swallowed and laid his chopsticks on his plate. Dabbing his mouth with a napkin, he stood and held out his hand. “How about it?”

Sophy’s eyes widened in surprise. Maybe there was an ounce of heroism in him after all. “Mr. Wright, are you asking me to dance?”

He tossed the napkin on the table, barely missing the leftover fish heads. “Dr. Wright.”

“Sorry.” She rose and laced her fingers through his. “Don’t worry, I’ll let you lead,” she promised, only half teasing.

When he tugged her into his strong arms, Sophy suddenly realized that she had lost all control over the situation. His fingers lightly stroked her lower back through the silk of her dress and she stiffened.

“Problem?”

She shivered as his warm breath caressed the tip of her ear, and struggled to answer. “No.”

Unless he considered an alarmingly fast heart rate a problem. She dove into the recesses of her memory, searching for any history of heart problems in her family, praying that she wasn’t about to go into cardiac arrest.

“Good,” he murmured, and slid his hand up the curve of her spine. Her skin tingled where he touched her, and she concentrated on making sure her feet were in the right place, and that his hands didn’t wander into the wrong place. She was pretty sure he had already tried to sneak a peek down her cleavage already. What there was of it, anyhow.

“So why did you bring me to three weddings?” he finally asked.

Sophy looked him straight in the eye. “Romance.”

“Romance?”

She nodded. “You need some work in that area.”

His dark eyebrows drew together in a frown. “I do?”

“Obviously. You can’t understand the appeal of romance novels if you don’t understand the appeal of romance,” she explained. “Weddings are romantic.”

He spun them to the left. “Weddings are mass delusions. Brainwashing.” He glanced down at Sophy. “And close your mouth or I’ll close it for you,” he threatened.

Her jaw snapped shut—she remembered the last time he had closed her mouth for her—and she stared at Max in astonishment. “What is this thing you have against romance?”

He raised an eyebrow at her. “What is this thing you have for romance?” he mimicked.

She jabbed a finger in his chest. “Just look over there at the bride and groom; don’t they look happy?”

He glanced over at the dancing couple. “They should be. Check out the gift table—they made out like bandits. Weddings are officiated grand larceny.”

“They’re in love!”

“Maybe, but the odds are against them.”

“Not every marriage ends in divorce,” Sophy reminded him. She sure didn’t plan for hers to.

“But some that should, don’t. What a waste.” He made a soft clucking noise with his tongue and Sophy had the sudden urge to kick him in the shin. The man was impossible.

“What do you have against marriage? What do you have against romance?”

Max’s gaze suddenly turned serious and his right hand vacated its position on her shoulder blade to rise between them and gently lift her chin. “Why is this so important to you?”

She ducked her head to avoid the questions in his eyes, and leaned her forehead against him. “It’s just a job,” she mumbled into his chest. More a hobby that she wished was a job.

His thumb stroked her neck and traced a path along her collarbone. “No, it’s not just a job for you. It’s more than that. What is it?”

She blinked away the tears that threatened to fall, shocked at the overwhelming sadness that lurched in her throat. He was right, it was more than that. Why did she cry over sappy movies? Why was she disappointed with every man she met? Why did she buy fresh flowers for her bedside table every week?

Because she was an unabashed romantic. At least, unabashed until now. Max was starting to make her feel ashamed of being an old-fashioned sap. When she was sure she could look in his eyes without bursting into tears, she clenched her jaw and tipped her head back.

“I want romance. I want a happy ending. Is that too much to ask?” Her gaze slid away to the towering gift table in the corner.

His finger stilled and rested in the groove of her collarbone. The way he watched her made her uncomfortable. “Maybe, in today’s world.” The lines around his grim lips softened as his gaze flicked over the beaming bride and groom. “Then again, people get lucky. Were your parents lucky?”

“No,” she said dully.

“Ah, I see.”

“No, you don’t see. You have no idea.” She tried to jerk away, but his arms locked around her waist like a steel cage and yanked her closer.

“Explain it to me.”

His hold on her eased but she knew that if she tried to make a break for it, he would pull her in tighter. Her chest rose and fell rapidly as she struggled for composure yet again. She hated losing control; it was so humiliating.

“There’s nothing to explain. My parents were unhappy. End of story.”

“And you were unhappy. Poor Sophy,” Max murmured.

“Don’t feel sorry for me! I wasn’t unhappy! I was just—” She didn’t know what she was. Idealistic? Naïve? Disappointed?

He drew back and watched her warily. “I’m sorry.”

“I said—”

He wrapped his fingers over her rising fist. “I mean, I’m sorry for sounding as though I pitied you.”

Sophy blinked away some more tears and her body relaxed against his. He was so warm, so strong.

“You’re not supposed to be sensitive and understanding.” She told herself she should just take his sympathy while she could get it—it had been her experience that it was a fleeting thing in most men.

He frowned. “Pardon me?”

They started moving again, dancing lazily to the next song. Sophy gave him a lopsided grin and tried to explain, “It’s not heroic. You’re supposed to be demanding and macho. Forceful and unsympathetic. An alpha hero. Or maybe a gamma, if you want to be a little sensitive.”

“Alpha? Gamma?” He looked confused.

“Women like alpha heroes.”

“They do? They sound like assholes to me.”

Sophy shrugged and rested her cheek against his chest. She tended to agree. “That’s what they say.” His heart thumped in her ear rhythmically. Loudly. She raised her head. “What did you say?”

“So I’m not romantic, and I’m not an alpha, gamma, epsilon, whatever. Then why do you want me?”

She met his questioning gaze and her mouth opened slightly. Was he referring to her wanting him as her hero, or something more? She shook her head.

“I don’t know. I just do,” she blurted out. Then she realized that she did want him, more than she’d wanted anyone she’d ever met.

His eyes darkened and she knew he was going to kiss her before he bent his head to hers. She knew, and she was powerless to stop it. The brutal truth was that she didn’t want to stop it. And she also knew that this time, he didn’t have an excuse like shutting her up. Maybe this time, he just wanted to kiss her. It was a heady feeling.

His mouth was as hard and as strong as his arms wrapped around her. He nibbled on her lower lip and traced a line across it with his tongue. His fingers burned into her skin as he held her, and he murmured soft words against her mouth. Words she couldn’t understand, words she couldn’t hear—they mingled with the champagne on his breath to envelop her in a haze of soothing intoxication.

She clutched at him, terrified by the depth of feeling he was managing to elicit from her with just the touch of his lips and his gentle hands roaming up and down her back, dancing over her muscles and following the seemingly boneless curve of her spine.

It was too much.

Her heart hammered in her chest, nearly drowning out the soft rhythms of the band in the corner, and their dance was forgotten.

They stood in the middle of the crowded room, but nobody dared come near them. She moaned softly as his mouth dragged over her cheek to nip her jaw, and his hot hands rose up her arms to knead the muscles in her shoulders.

“This is wrong,” she whispered into his ear.

“This is romance,” he murmured. “Isn’t that what you wanted?”

Oh. Carefully, she reached up and pulled his hands away from her. “I see,” she said between gritted teeth. She should have known not to fall for the fantasy.

Max blinked, and some of the cloudiness in his eyes disappeared. “You see what?”

Sophy stepped away from him and smoothed her dress down, furious that her body still stung from his touch. “There’s no need to mock me.”

“I wasn’t mocking you, damn it. I was just trying to point out that you don’t have to have love to have romance. Romance can be lust, too.”

She snorted. “Well, I hope you enjoyed your little experiment, but pity kisses aren’t my style.” She wasn’t sure with whom she was more disgusted—him, for proving his asinine little point, or herself for wanting him to prove it again.

Max dragged a hand through his hair. “It wasn’t a pity kiss, Sophy. For God’s sake—”

She shifted her weight to her other hip and her toe tapped restlessly on the parquet. “Oh, so you’re in love with me?”

He glanced furtively around, as though he was afraid someone had heard her. “I—“ His shoulders slumped a little. “No, I’m not in love with you.”

Even though it was what she had expected to hear, Sophy’s heart still sunk at the words. But then, had she really been expecting him to fall head over heels in love with her?

“Then why did you kiss me?” She cringed at the faint whine she could hear in her voice.

“Because I wanted to!” Now someone heard him.

His voice rose over the screech of violins halting, and Sophy suddenly realized that the whole room was watching them. It was the library all over again. Only this time she was definitely making a scene.

“What do you have against romance? Why don’t you believe in love?”

He reached out and clamped a hand on her arm, tugging her towards him. “Look, it’s not you. It’s me. I used to be—”

“Sophy!”

Sophy’s head whipped around at the sound of her name, the last syllable that Max had uttered echoing in her mind. What did he used to be? Frigid? A rent boy? Married? The music started again and the familiar voice rose out of the crowd as the owner descended upon them.

“Sophy, what are you doing here?”

Sophy’s mouth fell open. “Mom? Dad? What are you doing here? And together?” Her parents had finally divorced the year before, and were much happier apart than they ever were together. At least as far as Sophy could tell.

Her mother laughed. The movement of her chest made the half-dozen strands of brightly colored beads around her neck rattle. She tugged at them with a delicate hand and her brown eyes sparkled with love at Sophy, and curiosity at Max. “Honey, I didn’t know you knew the Chans! You know your father works with the bride’s mother?”

Sophy blinked again, realizing she still had the presence of mind to be embarrassed at being caught crashing a wedding. “I don’t know them. Uh, Mom, Dad, this is—”

“Max Wright,” her father announced, grabbing a hold of Max’s hand and shaking it vigorously. “Nice to see you again.”

“What?” Sophy’s gaze flickered from her parents to a very nervous Max. “How do you know Max?”

Her mother smiled indulgently at her. “Sweetie, Dr. Wright is the reason your father and I got divorced.”